


if you were church, i'd get on my knees

by littleleotas



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, a maple tree's worth of sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 04:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/pseuds/littleleotas
Summary: Garrus doesn't believe in much, but he believes in Shepard. Some schmoopy reflections during an act of reverence of sorts.





	if you were church, i'd get on my knees

**Author's Note:**

> At one point this was intended to be part of a much longer story, but. *shrugs, walks out of the room*

He told her once that he would take another rocket to the face if only to preserve the scars he knew she loved. She laughed, thought he was joking. Truth was, he would do far worse just to make her smile. But she wouldn’t have smiled if he took another rocket to the face, and that was the only reason he didn’t pursue it.

Holding her in his arms was the closest he had ever come to a religious experience. She straddled him on the couch in her cabin and he looked up at her—the blue light of the aquarium illuminating her face, her eyes closed as she panted in concentration, keeping a steady rhythm as she moved with him inside her—and he wondered if this was what it felt like to believe in something bigger than oneself. The feel of her soft skin underneath his hands, the pounding throb of his blood as her hips rocked, the pillar of heat rising through his core: everything about every moment like this with her made him a believer in magic, in a powerful mystical force for good in the universe, because what else could explain what brought them together?

“Garrus,” Shepard whispered, opening her eyes and bracing a shaky hand on his shoulder.

_’Ask me for anything and it’s yours,’_ he thought, and it came out as, “Yes?”

Her breath wavered as she exhaled. She had a certain smile on the battlefield, just before the last push, predatory but excited, anticipating the exhilaration. It was the same smile looking down at him now, but it wasn’t; it took on an entirely new quality when it was just for him, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He wasn’t trying very hard, though. He had other priorities.

“Bed?” she asked breathlessly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He moved his hands to her ass, holding her up as he stood, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air, she was the world to which he desperately wished to cling. The more of her he got, the more of himself he gave back, and he was happy to lose himself, as long as it was her he was losing himself to.

He lowered them to the bed, attempting a fluid motion but stumbling slightly, falling on top of her. She laughed brightly, moving her hands down from his neck and pressing her flat palms on his back. He groaned, his still-hard cock caught between them, pressed to her stomach. She shifted beneath him, widening her hips; as familiar as the movement was now, it still felt surreal to him that she opened for him, that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He buried his face in her shoulder as he pushed into her, moaning at her touch as her fingers guided his cock.

She raised her hips to meet him, both of them releasing a sigh as he buried himself fully inside her. This soft warmth felt so at odds with the Shepard he saw at work, all hard angles and set jaw. Here, with him, she was a different kind of fire: a welcoming, comforting flame in the hearth rather than a towering inferno. The sounds escaping her throat were as desperate as her grasping fingers, pulling him closer to her as if she could have more of him. He thrust deliberately slow, controlled, almost torturous in self-restraint. He was too aware of how easy it was to lose her, the exact probability of each time being their last, and he catalogued her response to every movement, every sensation she caused, how she felt in and on and around him for the inevitable day that it was all of her he had left.

He stopped her moan with a kiss as he thrust harder, a guttural note sounding in his throat as she clenched around his cock. His hips jerked in an involuntary spasm and he hissed a curse at his loss of control. She smiled with satisfaction, tracing a finger down his mandible.

“Let me take over,” she whispered breathlessly.

He never could disobey her, even if he wanted to, and the tension in his limbs dissipated as she rolled on top of him, gently pinning his wrists down and pressing her lips to his chest. She eased herself onto his cock slowly, and he shuddered with anticipation as he filled her. She moaned in a hum as she rode him, the back-and-forth movement of her hips fluid and constant. He had always been awed by the artistry of her movement, but the appreciation became adoration somewhere along the line. He was never much of an aesthete, never much noticed beauty or supposed lack thereof, but the movement of her body was something transcendent.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, his head falling backward as an aching heat wracked his body. Her hands braced on his stomach as she rocked against him in long strokes, and he moved his hands to the back of her thighs, pulling her forward as she pushed down.

“Oh, God,” her voice was hoarse and deep as she threw her head back. His subvocals rumbled as he gazed transfixed at her losing control, pulling again as she pushed. It had once seemed impossible to think she would unravel, as collected and steadfast as she seemed. The trust, the belief she had in him that he would put her back together when she came undone: it was like a god believing in a mortal. Their speed and the heat between them increased; they did not race toward release but reached for it in conjunction. Tremors raced through her body, her voice wavering as she cried out, tangling her hand in her own hair.

He ran his hand up to the small of her back, propping himself up with one arm behind him as he pulled her down onto him to the hilt. His breath grew short, his vision going wavy at the edges as she slid up and down, so slick they lost friction. She gripped his shoulders and he felt her convulse, pulling him after her into orgasm. Heat rushed into his face as he momentarily forgot anything but shattering sensation, the slick tightness of her around his cock easing as her weight sank onto his legs. His stabilising arm bent and he collapsed backward on the bed, her heavy limbs embracing him as she panted, resting her cheek on his chest.

Her skin was sticky with sweat, making a small ripping noise as she rolled off him. She continued panting, draping an arm across his torso. He turned to look at her, and she smiled sweetly. The thought of Commander Shepard doing anything sweetly was almost laughable, but she wasn’t Commander Shepard here. Nor was he Garrus Vakarian, a name heavy with the shackles of past failures. Here they were people, not icons. Here they belonged to each other, not the world. He resented the world a little, wishing the weight of it didn’t hang so much on Shepard’s shoulders, wishing the carefree smiles he elicited from her could exist outside their moments alone. The world did not deserve the toil it wrenched from her, but if he could provide even a fraction of the reverence it owed her, it would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr at avelakjar!


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